


Serenity

by hailtherandom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, or as close to fluff as I am comfortable with writing for these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/pseuds/hailtherandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The quiet moments, Sebastian thinks, are the most special."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serenity

**Author's Note:**

> On the infamous day when Moftiss declared that shooting yourself in the head did in fact lead to dying, I wrote Zhelly fluff.

The quiet moments, Sebastian thinks, are the most special.  
They're not his favorites, maybe. His favorites usually tend to err on the side of that moment after he finishes a kill and he comes home to a tightly coiled Jim who is ready to spring at the sound of a job well completed. His favorites are usually when Jim breaks out the knives and he winds his bloodied fingers through Sebastian's hair, tugging him down for another bruising, biting, devouring kiss. His favorites are when he's buried deep within the man, snarling his name in his ear as perfectly manicured nails tear down his back and open fresh scars that drip blood down his arching body.  
They're his favorites, yes. But they're not the most special.  
The most special moments, the most serene ones, the times where Sebastian can say he's at peace and mean it, those happen once or twice in a blue moon. The ones where he'll just be sitting around, watching a match on telly or eating the dinner that Jim won't touch or reading a book from the study and Jim will sidle up to him, curl up next to him, rest his head on his shoulder.  
"Hey, Seb."  
And Sebastian always looks up from whatever he's doing with the same surprised expression. "Yeah, boss? You need somethin'?"  
Jim studies him for a moment, eyes clear of their usual anger. "Nothing." He settles back against Sebastian's side and Sebastian, of course, is helpless to do anything other than set whatever he's working on down and wrap one arm around the man.  
There's the silence first. The mere presence, the fact that Jim wants to occupy the same space as him without his tongue down Sebastian's throat or a cock pushing into somewhere hot and tight. There's warmth there now where there's usually frenzied heat. Sebastian takes these precious few moments to bask in the feeling of Jim's breathing against his neck, the gentle pound of his heartbeat against his chest, the slow circles Jim draws over his skin with his fingertips that leave burning trails behind.  
And then there's the talking. And usually when Jim talks to Sebastian, it's about work, about jobs, about angles and trajectories and isn't he so pretty on his knees like that, but now. Now it's quiet and it's thoughtful. Jim talks more about life, the things he's learned. Positions of stars and the mathematics of asteroids. Little bits of old Irish folk songs, if Jim is evidently feeling whimsical. Sebastian never has to say anything during these times, and he's not really sure what he would say given the opportunity. He's content to let Jim sit with him, mumbling about constellations, his native Irish accent slipping out in full every now and then.  
It's lulling, is the thing. Sebastian rarely gets to listen for long. Jim's calm, his pure calmness and the low rhythm of his voice, they all tend to lull Sebastian. He never sleeps well with Jim, he's always half on guard.  
When Jim talks like this, pressed close enough that they share air and words and heartbeats, then just for one fraction of a night, Sebastian sleeps easily.


End file.
